Yet Another Way
by ack1308
Summary: When the Brockton Bay Brigade attacked Marquis in his home, he took a blow for his daughter that ultimately ended up with his capture and incarceration in the Birdcage. What if he didn't manage to do so? (This is a spin-off of an omake that was requested from the story Another Way).
1. Chapter 1

**Yet Another Way**

* * *

Introduction: A Death in the Family

* * *

 _A/N: The first three sentences are taken directly from canon._

* * *

 _1) This story is set in the Wormverse, which is owned by Wildbow. Thanks for letting me use it._

 _2) I will follow canon as closely as I can. If I find something that canon does not cover, then I will make stuff up. If canon then refutes me, then I will revise. Do not bother me with fanon; corrections require citations._

 _3) I will accept any legitimate criticism of my work. However, I reserve the right to ignore anyone who says "That's wrong" without showing how it is wrong, and suggesting how it can be made right. Posting negative reviews from an anonymous account is a good way to have said reviews deleted._

* * *

Marquis surrounded himself in plates of bone that resembled the petals of a flower blooming in reverse, and sank into the ground.

Any other day, Brandish would have followed him into the room below. A wine cellar, it seemed.

Instead, she turned and charged for the closet, creating a sword out of the crackling energy her power provided, slashing through the plates of bone that had surrounded it, then drawing the blade back to thrust through the wooden door-

Marquis emerged between her and the closet door and ducked away, trying to draw her from her target. She plunged the sword into the heavy wood and through it, smelling the smoke from the charred door. _Fuck you, Marquis. Whatever you're protecting is_ _ **gone.**_

And then she heard the high-pitched cry, cut off a moment later. From _within_ the closet. And she smelled the burning flesh.

" _NO!"_ screamed Marquis. He held his hand out; the bones emerged from his hand, forming into a flat-based battering ram, smashing her backward until she formed into her invulnerable ball shape. A moment later, it spread outward, forming a barrier of bone around Marquis and the closet.

Manpower stepped forward, looking at Brandish and Lady Photon. "What the fuck just happened?" he asked.

The bone barrier dropped. Marquis was revealed, but now he was carrying a burden. A girl. A toddler, not much younger than Vicky. The girl was brown haired, freckle-faced, and wore a silk nightgown with lace at the collar and sleeves. It looked expensive for something a child would wear. There was a neat burn in the nightgown, just below the breastbone.

"Daddy," she breathed, then what little life was left in her was gone forever.

"Oh, god," whispered Lady Photon. "Your daughter?"

Tears were streaming down Marquis' face, unheeded. "The most precious treasure in the world. Her name was Amelia." Lowering his face, he planted a kiss on his child's brow.

"Christ, man, I'm sorry," Manpower muttered awkwardly. "We didn't know -"

"You didn't _know?"_ Marquis asked, his head coming up. _"You didn't_ _ **know?"**_

His left arm still supporting his dead child, the hand turned; bone shot out to strike Manpower and drive him backward, fastening him to the wall in a cage of spikes driven deep into the wall.

"Did you even _look?"_ he raged, turning his attention to Lady Photon. "Did you even try to _find out?"_ Shards of bone speared from the floor, surrounding her. In a moment, she was entombed in a sarcophagus, only her face showing. Her arms, visible in relief, were crossed over her chest, the palms pressed to her shoulders.

Brandish ignited her light-sword once more, then the most terrible pain lanced into her back. She screamed at the tearing agony, as the spike of bone punched out through her chest.

 _But he doesn't hurt women or children!_

Instinctively, she shifted to her invulnerable form, then back to human, once she was away from the bone spike. But the hole through her body was still there; she dropped to her knees, coughing blood.

"Congratulations, Brandish dear," he murmured to her, stepping closer. Bone encased her hands, pulled them behind her back. "Many have tried my resolve when it came to hurting women and children. Jack Slash came the closest, but even he failed. But _you_ … you managed it. If I had let my weapon hurt you, then we would not have come to this. I failed my Amelia once. I will not fail her memory – _murderer."_

Bone shards speared throughout her body, entering every organ, setting off a blaze of agony. She went to her invulnerable form once more, went to human.

They were still there.

Marquis stood looking down at her, with absolutely no pity on his face.

And then the _real_ agony began.

* * *

The next morning, the caretaker at the Brockton Bay cemetery found an elaborate tomb constructed of some smooth hard white material, where none had been the day before. Two angels, intricately carved, held a plaque which read:

AMELIA CLAIRE LAVERE

BELOVED DAUGHTER

TAKEN FAR TOO SOON

1994-2000

"REST EASY, MY BEAUTIFUL PRINCESS ..."

On a much smaller plaque, out of view of the casual onlooker, there was a different message:

 _Don't even think about moving her – Marquis_

* * *

An anonymous phone tip led ambulance personnel to a car on the outskirts of town, which held five people. Or rather, what had _once_ been five people. Their skeletons were twisted, partly shrunken and partly expanded, to a degree far beyond grotesquerie. That they were still alive was a tribute to the art of whoever had left them in such a condition.

Worse, they still wore costumes, or the remains of costumes, that identified them as five of the six members of the Brockton Bay Brigade. Of the sixth member, Brandish, no trace was ever found.

They were admitted to palliative care in a parahuman asylum, where they would live out the rest of their lives under the care of others.

* * *

"Crystal, Victoria, Eric, come in please."

The three children trooped into the director's office. She had done her best to make sure that it wasn't spartan and unfriendly to children, with beanbags and a colourful play area, to which Eric headed immediately. Accompanied by their carer, Crystal and Victoria fronted up to the desk.

Director Kelly looked them over. A not unkind woman, she liked to think that she had a certain empathy with children. It had been more than a month since they had been taken into care, following the … incapacitation … of their respective parents. Crystal, a solemn eight-year-old, seemed to be bearing up well, although there were reports of her younger brother crying at night and wetting the bed. Of course, he _was_ only four, so there were some allowances to be made.

Victoria, on the other hand, did her best to be cheerful and upbeat; Kelly knew that she cried, but only when she thought nobody could see.

Their parents hadn't _died_ , but what had happened to them was almost as bad; they could never exist in normal society, never live without care. They were healthy and young and would be a burden on the state for many years to come. She had viewed photographs of what had been done to them, and then burned the photographs. It didn't matter; she would never forget the images.

And left behind, there were the children. They wouldn't even be allowed to _see_ their parents until they reached the age of majority; they could send them letters or speak to them over the phone before then. Of course, the Pelhams and Mark Dallon would be unable to reply, what had been done to them had left them entirely incapable of speech or writing, or even seeing in the same direction with both eyes at once.

She didn't even _want_ to know what had happened to Carol Dallon.

* * *

"You wanted to see us, Miss Kelly?" asked Crystal politely.

Kelly nodded. "Yes. As it happens, there's a nice man with the very best of references who is willing to take in all three of you. Jenny will be going with you, of course. She'll take care of you while you're living in his house."

She had checked over the references herself, and had been impressed. A large house, a professed tolerance of the rambunctiousness of young children, and plenty of outdoor space for them to play in.

"Can I still send letters to Mommy and Daddy?" asked Victoria.

"Of course," Kelly assured her. "We'll be sending all the photographs you have of them, so you can put them up in your rooms."

"Good," Crystal stated. "Eric, come here."

Eric looked up from bashing a plastic locomotive on to the floor, and trotted over to his big sister. "What?" he asked.

"We've got a new Daddy, and Jenny's going to be like our Mommy," Crystal explained to him.

"I don't _want_ a new Daddy or Mommy," he whined.

"Well, they won't be our _real_ daddies or mommies," Vicky explained brightly. "They'll just be taking care of us until our real daddies and mommies come back from their secret mission."

Kelly was mildly impressed. The children had obviously come up with an explanation as to why they couldn't see or speak to their parents, independently of the so-called child experts who regularly checked to make sure that they had 'natural and healthy development'. It wasn't a bad one, either.

She pressed a button on her intercom. "Send him in, please."

The door opened, and a tall man with long brown hair, tied back, entered the room. "Hello," he greeted them. "I'm guessing you're Crystal," he posited, pointing at Eric.

Crystal giggled. "No, silly. _I'm_ Crystal."

The man rubbed his chin, as if in thought. "Then you must be Eric," he decided, pointing at Vicky.

Vicky shook her head, giggling harder than Crystal. "No, I'm _Vicky."_

The man dropped to one knee before them. "Well, I'm very pleased to meet you all, Crystal, Vicky, Eric." He looked at each of them in turn as he spoke their names.

"What's _your_ name?" asked Vicky.

"Oh, silly me, I forgot to introduce myself." The man smiled brilliantly. "My name is Mark."

* * *

End of Introduction


	2. Chapter 2

**Yet Another Way**

* * *

Part Two: Family Matters

* * *

 **2003**

* * *

Marcus Raymond, supervillain and father, paused in the doorway to the living room. Crystal was reading a book on the sofa, while Vicky sat on the floor, leaning up against the sofa to watch some show on TV. In the meantime, Eric lay on the carpet, colouring in a picture with rather more enthusiasm than accuracy. Marcus cleared his throat, then waited until each of them had looked around.

"What's up, Dad?" asked Crystal.

"Has any of you seen my newspaper?" he asked. "I left it on the desk in my study."

"Oh," nine-year old-Vicky blurted, looking embarrassed. "I took it to do the crossword. I know how you hate it when we take pages out of it. It's in my room. I''ll go get it now." She jumped to her feet.

"Thank you, Victoria," he replied dryly, stepping aside to let her pass. "Next time, ask permission to go in there, all right?"

"Okay," she called back over her shoulder as she took the stairs two at a time. "Sorry, sorry."

"Slow down," he called after her. "It's only a newspaper."

"Uh, sorry about that, Dad," Crystal offered. "Vicky asked me where it was. I didn't know she'd go in there and get it."

"As if the three of you don't sneak into my study from time to time," he replied with a raised eyebrow, seating himself on the end of the sofa. "I don't go into your bedrooms without asking permission first. Is it too much to ask for you to do me the same courtesy for my study?"

"But there's so _much_ interesting stuff in there," Eric interjected. "Skulls an' books an' pictures an' all sorts of stuff."

"Which is _my_ stuff," Marcus pointed out. "How would you like it if I went into your room and started digging through _your_ private stuff?"

Eric dropped his eyes and mumbled something.

"I beg your pardon?" asked Marcus politely.

"I wouldn't like it," mumbled the boy, a little more clearly.

"And so." Marcus tilted his head. "I don't mind you coming in there. Just please, ask permission first. Best if you ask me when I'm in there already. That way, I can tell you about some of the things I have."

A junior-sized elephant thundered down the stairs and Vicky dashed back into the room, a little flushed. In her hand, she clutched the errant newspaper. "Here you are, Dad," she panted. "Sorry."

He accepted it from her, but didn't take his eye from her. "Thank you for the paper. As I said, next time, please ask permission to go into my study. And to take the paper, if it's there."

Eyes downcast, she nodded. "Okay, Dad."

"Good girl." He smiled slightly, and swatted her lightly on the rear with the folded paper. "And I know you kids are young and have all the energy in the world, but do me a favour and try not to run quite so much inside the house, all right? You've got an enormous back yard and a swimming pool to work off all that energy in."

This time, it was a chorus from all three of them. "Yes, Dad."

"Good." He smiled. "So, I was thinking we could spend tomorrow on the Boardwalk, then go to the movies in the evening. Why don't you put your heads together and decide what you'd like to see?"

That got an enthusiastic response, and the three children began discussing the choices with a considerable amount of animation. He was pleased to note, as he settled down in his favourite chair to read the paper, that they weren't actually arguing; that after even just a few years of his influence, they were able to debate a point in a logical and mature fashion. Except, of course, for Eric's tendency to state stubbornly, 'But I _like_ it!'; however, the lad was still only seven. He would learn.

He was very fond of Eric, as he was of the two girls. Where he had at first thought that he could never take to another child, they had eased their way into his heart. Originally, his taking in the children of the Brockton Bay Brigade had been a self-imposed duty as well as a take-that to the surviving members; he would raise the children _better_ than they ever could. But it had become much more than that; as they grew used to him as their foster father, they had opened up to him. And his heart had opened up to them in return.

 _They will never take the place of my Amelia. But I feel that I am beginning to love them. I will raise them as well as I know how._

"Uh, Dad?"

He raised his eyes from the paper; Crystal was sitting up on the sofa. Eric and Vicky were still deep in discussion over the movie choices.

"Yes?" he asked.

"Can I talk to you about boys?"

 _That_ got his attention. He folded the paper and put it down. "Yes, you can." _Oh god, what do you want to know?_

Her eyes flicked sideways to her siblings, who were absorbed in their debate. "Can we talk … somewhere else?"

"Oh, yes." He got up. "I think the back patio would be a good idea."

* * *

He settled himself on to one of the patio chairs, and waited until she was comfortable in another. "So," he began, steeling himself as any father would, "what is it that you want to know?"

She seemed to want to look anywhere but at him. "What if there was a boy at school that I liked, and I think he likes me?"

"Crystal," he replied, trying to keep his tone patient. "You're _eleven years old_. You shouldn't even be _noticing_ boys at your age."

"I'll be twelve in two months," she protested.

"Still too young," he maintained.

Taking a deep breath, she faced up to him. "But what if I _am_ noticing him?"

With the feeling of a man finding his way through a quicksand bog, he nodded. "Okay, so does this hypothetical boy have a name?"

"Uh … " For a moment, he could tell that she was considering a lie, but then she discarded it and met his eyes. In doing so, she raised herself another notch in his estimation. "Yes, Dad. His name's Jimmy Leyland. He's really nice."

 _Jimmy Leyland._ For a moment, he felt the urge to go and locate this boy and have a stern talk with him. The sort of stern talk that has the phrase 'blast radius' attached to it. But he suppressed it; Crystal liked the boy, and so he was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. _For now._

"So what do you want to know?" he asked. _Not the Talk,_ he begged silently. _Please not the Talk._ He had done many things in his life, things that would cause strong men to run screaming into the night, but that particular task made him cringe just by thinking about it.

She swallowed nervously. _Oh good, she's just as scared of this topic as I am._ "I was just wondering … what's the best way of telling him that I like him?"

He blinked. "What?"

Gathering courage, she went on. "I like him. I _think_ he likes me. How do I tell him? If I try to do it at school, there's kids all around, and I'm scared of being laughed at. Should I text him? Send him an email?"

Finally, Marcus was on familiar ground. "No. Neither of those." He shook his head. "Sending someone a text to tell them that you like them is about the _least_ romantic way to do it."

"Then what should I do?"

"I suggest that you write him a letter."

She looked puzzled. "But you just said that I shouldn't use email."

"No, I meant letter as in actual pen and paper. On good paper stock. Something where you can take your time writing it, and think about what you want to say. Then you put it in an envelope, and put a stamp on it, and mail it to him. The old-fashioned way."

"But that'll take _days_ to get to him!"

"Which is why you take your time thinking about what you want to say to him." Marcus shrugged. "Are you going to feel any differently about him in a week's time?"

"No." Her expression was firm. "I won't." She took a deep breath. "Can you help me write it?"

He let out an amused snort. "No. But I'll look it over after you've finished, if you want. Unless you're thinking of saying something really embarrassing in it."

From the look on her face, she was just now realising that what she had to say might indeed be embarrassing, if read by the wrong person. "I, uh, maybe I'll be okay."

He tilted his head. "All right, then. I'd suggest that you write out a draft on ordinary paper, then I can give you some good writing paper to do the final copy on."

Her smile lit up her whole face. "Thanks, Dad." Jumping up, she gave him a swift hug. "I'll go and do that now."

Her footsteps faded away into the interior of the house; he sat for a few moments, looking out over the back yard. _My little girls are growing up. How time flies._

And the ache in his heart was barely a twinge, now. _Amelia would have liked them._

* * *

"Dad, I've finished the draft."

Marcus looked up from the paper to see Crystal standing in front of him. She held a folded piece of paper in her hand, and was jittering slightly with excitement.

"Good," he congratulated her. "Now, do you recall the calligraphy lessons?"

"Oh god, I'm not going to write him _that_ fancy a letter," she protested. "He'll think I'm trying to impress him!"

"Well, aren't you?" he asked mildly, getting up from the chair and folding the paper.

"Yeah, but I don't want him to _know_ it!"

"Well, I suppose," he agreed. "But you can still write it neatly, and sign your name with a flourish. That should impress him without making it look like you're trying too hard."

"Maybe you're right," she conceded, following him into his study. "I still can't do calligraphy like you can."

"All it takes is a little practice," he pointed out. Leaning down, he opened a desk drawer and removed a pad of expensive writing stock; the thick creamy paper held a subtle watermark. Along with it, he pulled out his calligraphy set. "Would you like to write it out here or in your room?"

"I'll do it in my room, thanks, Dad," she replied, accepting the pad and the box of pens. Pausing, she nodded to his desk. "I've been meaning to ask. Who's that?"

He followed her gaze to the gold-framed picture that sat just under the reading lamp, where the light would most readily fall upon it. The girl in the photograph had long brown hair and a brilliant smile; she wore a princess costume, and looked a little younger than Eric. He remembered the day when he presented the costume to her; she had been so excited, so happy to be wearing it. It had been so very worth the money he'd spent to have it custom made for her.

"That's … that was my daughter, Amelia," he told Crystal quietly. Slowly, he sat down in the chair, his eyes never leaving the picture.

"What … what do you mean, was?" she asked. "Did something happen to her?"

He nodded. "Yes. I … she died. When she was six years old. I loved her very much."

Impulsively, she put the pad and calligraphy set on the desk, and hugged him. "I'm sorry, Dad. How did it happen?"

He kissed her on the forehead. "It's a sad story, Crystal. Are you sure you're ready to hear it?"

"Yeah, I think so."

"All right then. Get a chair. You might want to sit down for this."

"Okay, Dad." She pulled a chair around so that she could sit in front of him, while he leaned back in the chair and contemplated the picture of Amelia.

When he gauged that she was ready, he commenced. "What can you tell me about the Brockton Bay Brigade?"

There was a momentary silence, then Crystal frowned. "Wasn't that our moms and dads, back before?"

"That's correct, yes," Marcus agreed.

"They were superheroes who disappeared or something, a few years ago. When they didn't come back, you adopted us."

"All of that's true," Marcus told her, "except for one important part."

"What part's that?" asked Crystal.

"Well, they _said_ they were superheroes," Marcus observed, "and people _thought_ they were superheroes, and for the most part they did good things. But sometimes they didn't do the right thing. They were careless and irresponsible with their powers. People got hurt. And sometimes, people got killed."

"What – what do you mean, Dad?" asked Crystal. Her eyes darted to the photograph. "Did they -"

Slowly, he nodded. "I'm afraid so, Crystal."

"What happened?"

"Three years ago," Marcus told her. "The Brockton Bay Brigade came to my home and attacked me. Amelia was with me. She was killed in the attack."

 _"You?"_ Crystal's eyes were wide, now. "Why did they attack _you?"_

He sighed, and took her hands in his. "Because they decided that I was a bad man, sweetpea. People called me a supervillain, so they attacked me. Over and over again. And I beat them, over and over again. But then they found out where I lived and came to attack me at home."

"And Amelia got killed."

"Yes. When they attacked the house, I hid her in a closet. But one of their attacks nearly hit the closet, so I protected it. They saw that, so they attacked the closet to distract me. I wasn't able to stop them in time." His eyes dropped. "She died in my arms."

Crystal got out of her chair and hugged him fiercely. "I'm so sorry, Dad. I never knew."

"It's not your fault, honey," he replied, returning the hug. "It never was your fault. That's why I took you children in. So that you didn't have to suffer for what your parents did."

"I always thought they were superheroes, not villains." Her eyes were full of tears. "They _lied_ to us."

"They didn't _lie_ ," he told her. "They just didn't tell you the whole truth."

"That's the same as lying," she retorted, then she paused. "What happened then?"

"What happened when?"

"After _that_." She was obviously uncomfortable with referring to Amelia's death. "What happened?"

"Oh. I ... I was very angry, of course. So I made sure they couldn't hurt anyone ever again."

Her eyes were wide. "Did you ... _kill_ them?"

He shook his head. "No ... well, not all of them. Just the one who killed my little girl. The others ... I punished them. Then I made sure they went to a place where they couldn't hurt anyone."

"Did you ... did you put them in the _Birdcage?"_

Marcus shook his head. "No, they're not in the Birdcage. They're in Philadelphia, to be precise."

Crystal looked confused. "What are they doing _there?"_

"They're in a place where they can think about exactly what they did wrong," he replied steadily. "In the meantime, I'm taking care of you because they can't."

"Wait a minute ... if they thought you were a supervillain, and you were able to punish them ... who _are_ you?"

"Haven't you figured it out yet?" he asked. "You're a bright girl. There's a clue, right there in my name."

She frowned, concentrating in thought. "Marcus ... Mark ... " Her eyes went wide again. _"Marquis?"_

Solemnly, he nodded. "That's me."

"But nobody's heard from him, I mean you, in the last three years either." She stared at him. "Did you lose your powers or something when you fought the Brigade?"

He noted the use of 'Brigade' rather than 'mom and dad', and was heartened. "No. My powers are still as strong as ever." To demonstrate, he held out his hand. A bone-white rose grew from his palm; he snapped it off and gave it to her, concealing the stab of pain that resulted.

Wonderingly, she examined it. "But ... if you have your powers ... ?"

"I decided to learn from my mistakes. I can't be a father and a public supervillain at the same time, not without putting you at risk. What happened to Amelia taught me that. So I stopped."

"You ... you did that for _us?"_ Unspoken were the words _The children of your enemies?_

Reaching out, he placed his hand on her shoulder. "I took you in from duty, but it has become more than that. You children are more important than anything else in the world to me. I will _never_ allow any of you to come to harm. I _promise."_

Again, her arms were wrapped around him. "Thank you."

His heart swelled in his chest as he returned the embrace, his arms enfolding the slender body of his adopted daughter. He wanted to hold her forever, protect her from the world.

"Dad?" Her voice was soft in his ear.

"Yes, honey?"

"I love you, Dad."

He smiled, and gave her a little bit of an extra squeeze. "I love you too, Crystal."

"Thank you, Dad. For everything."

"You're welcome, sweet pea." Gradually, he let her go, and pretended not to notice as she wiped her eyes. After all, he was more than a little misty-eyed himself. "So, about this letter you wanted to write. I've thought of a perfect opening paragraph." Clearing his throat, he assumed a gruff voice. _"Dear Jimmy. This is her dad speaking. Watch it, boy. I know where you live."_

"Oh, _Dad!"_ She laughed and punched him in the shoulder. "You leave Jimmy alone."

"So long as he leaves you alone," he stated firmly.

"Yeah, okay," she agreed. "Uh, Dad?"

"Yes, honey?"

"Can I tell Vicky and Eric about ... well, the Brigade?"

"Maybe when they're a little older, okay?"

She nodded. "That's probably a good idea. Okay."

* * *

End of Part Two


End file.
